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But on nights like these no one read Izvestia, of course.
Dunya the cleaner was in the woods behind the state farm and as coincidence would have it, the ginger-moustached driver of the farm's battered truck happened to be there too.
What they were doing there no one knows.
They were sheltering in the unreliable shade of an elm tree, on the driver leather coat which was spread out on the ground.
A lamp shone in the kitchen, where the two market-gardeners were having supper, - and Madame Feight was sitting in a white neglige on the columned veranda, gazing at the beautiful moon and dreaming.
At ten o'clock in the evening when the sounds had died down in the village of Kontsovka behind the state farm, the idyllic landscape was filled with the charming gentle playing of a flute.
This fitted in with the groves and former columns of the Sheremetev palace more than words can say.
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